


Steps

by chibiwriter



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dancing, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-30
Updated: 2015-05-30
Packaged: 2018-04-02 00:19:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4040197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibiwriter/pseuds/chibiwriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tarantism - The urge to overcome melancholy by dancing.</p><p>The world is filled with people he could help - but he can't save them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steps

The mood around Skyhold was too dark. He didn’t like it, didn’t like the itchy feeling it caused on his skin and in between his fingers. Made him want to sneeze, too. He didn’t like it.

The darkness creeped over everything, shadowing people and shading their intentions. He could feel ill intent even in the brightest moments – sitting in the back of the mind and weighing on his shoulders. Worst of all was the pain. He was quick on the battlefield because even if their enemies wanted him dead, he couldn’t bring himself to give them a slow death. Quick strikes. Quicker deaths.

Cole hid away sometimes. In the shadows, too. He’s a dark light, not alive and yet the grace of death alludes him as well. He has memories, but they flee from him sometimes too. The Inquisition gives him purpose, and some people can recall him. He could be seen. So different from not remembering. Not being.

He was different now. More human, less of what he had been. And more. More right? It felt right, even if the days continued to darken and the sun offered less warmth than before. The world was dying because of the creature, the person-spirit-thing that hurt. It. Hurt. Cole didn’t like it. The smell was rotten.

So he hid, and listened. His room – _his_ – above the tavern gave him shadows to play in. Ownership was foreign, but not bad. It didn’t hurt. But the voices, the pains and sufferings, they followed him. They were loudest after battles. Despair’s sour song was getting brasher.

The Inquisition. They tried to help, to lessen the dark. But only the physical dark could be fought – shadows in people’s hearts were harder combat. Speeches helped. But not much. Too much reality meant for more tension, more dissention. People didn’t like being told of hope when there was none to be seen.

Cole didn’t like being around too many people. Their pains drove him in odd places, tore at him. But Skyhold was home - for now. He had a room. A room he could hide in. And listen.

So he listened. In the privacy of his room. It was noon, the sun high in the sky, so the tavern below was quiet. Dust motes glittered playfully in a beam of sunlight.

He stood in the middle of his small room. Eyes closed, perfectly still.

Listening.

_There was a woman. A mother. Her son had just died in a recent battle, her husband in the battle before. Her faith was strong, but the knife she used to cut up the vegetables for the evening’s stew looked awfully seductive. ‘To take one’s life is a sin in the eyes of the Maker’. But what had the Maker done for her lately?_

His left arm twitched and he crouched, tense yet loose. He could take her pain away. He could offer her peace.

_There was a young boy. He’d just discovered his magical prowess. His mother was scared for him, and everyone treated him differently. His friends no longer played with him in the courtyard, no longer even glanced his way. The dreams were the worst, though. Demons claiming they could give him things he desired– power to bring his father back from the void and wealth to give his mother the comfort she deserved. He hated sleeping because it brought temptation. Just a quick plummet off the tower would solve that problem, and give his mother one less mouth to feed._

Cole’s breath was unsteady as he sprang in the air, landing carefully. Gracefully. His arms flared out to steady the motion, balancing on one foot.

_A soldier lay panting in the cot his family could afford. The healers couldn’t bring his arm back, nor his leg. ‘Lucky to be alive’ they said. Was he? He swore if he heard the Chant of Light said near him or had to spend another day in bed, he was going to throw something. He’d counted all the slats on the roof and the cot was giving him sores. Misery in its purest form. Maker, take him._

He spun, falling and ducking as he listened. He heard. All their woes and pain – all their hurts. He could give them peace. His body begged him to ease their suffering. All of it.

But to do it was wrong, the Inquisitor said.

So, he danced.

_A swordswoman having to deal with her male peers. Oh, they never taunted her when the higher ups were around. Only when they trained: grunted, breathy threats whispered to her when their blades crossed. They’d gotten worse as time went on – now they were nothing less than depraved. But she was powerless to stop them. Helplessness._

_A healer who ran away from the Circle to join the Inquisition, hoping for a better life. She’d left behind everything – even the woman she loved. A letter had come for her. Her love was dead – tortured for association and then killed. Oh, agony ripped through her. Guilt._

They came faster now, in rhythm to his footfalls.

_A stable hand wheezed on the ground. The horse had kicked him clear across the yard and the others were calling out to him mockingly. His side was on fire, but the worst heat was for his face. Shame._

_A husband catching his wife with his best friend, hair tousled and clothes strewn about. Entwined together on their marriage bed. There are no words. Betrayal._

_She counted her arrows, then counted them again. Her comrades have all left her for the tavern, but all she can do is think of how she ran out of arrows in the last battle. Fear._

_He carefully smoothed the wrinkles in her dress, brushing a hand through her hair one last time. A step back, an order. He watched the flames and thought of her smile. Loss._

_The unseen green poison flows from his palm and pulses up his arm. It aches even as he watches the young man dance in the room above the tavern-_

Cole stumbled, eyes flying open. He turned, seeing with his eyes instead of his mind. It is disorienting, but he’s able to make out the Inquisitor in the shadows. His shadows. His room.

“Sorry. Did I startle you?” The Inquisitor looked sheepish.

Cole shook his head mutely. No, not startled. Not much. “You are in my room.”

“Yeah, sorry. I was coming to see if you wanted anything special for dinner tonight.”

The words hold truth, sincerity. There is no lie. Cole liked that about the Inquisitor.

“I will have what is served.” He nodded a little, affirmation. He is still dizzy from the voices, limbs wanting to spread out in all directions to offer comfort. Peace.

There was a pause.

“So, were you dancing before?”

Cole shook his head. “Listening.”

The Inquisitor’s head tilted to the side. Confusion. “It sure looked like it was dancing. Could you teach me?”

Cole thought back to the voices. The need. The sincerity.

_It aches even as he watches the young man dance in the room above the tavern._

He smiled. “You would not know the steps. But you could learn.”

**Author's Note:**

> A prompt a friend sent me. Originally posted to my Tumblr.


End file.
